


New Standards

by Rrrowr



Series: The Check List [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Public Blow Jobs, oral kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-26 03:25:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rrrowr/pseuds/Rrrowr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a near religious experience, giving head — if Peter were the type to believe in a higher power than himself. Sure, he’s the one on his knees, but it’s always the other guy who’s shouting benedictions, pleading for mercy, for more, praising him. Groaning out the Lord’s name when he lets their cocks go with a soft pop. Yeah, you could say he feels like God.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Standards

Peter likes sucking guys off because he enjoys letting them think that he's there to get his face fucked, like they're the ones in control. He enjoys it because, fact is, he's going to be the best lay they've ever had. He's going to be the standard by which they compare all future blow jobs, and if they think they can just grab his hair and force him to do more than he wants, well... He's a werewolf and he's not afraid to make men hurt.

He likes how different men taste, too. One might call Peter a connoisseur of come at this point. It’s a near religious experience, giving head — if Peter were the type to believe in a higher power than himself. Sure, he’s the one on his knees, but it’s always the other guy who’s shouting benedictions, pleading for mercy, for more, praising him. Groaning out the Lord’s name when he lets their cocks go with a soft pop. Yeah, you could say he feels like God.

By human standards, Peter is maybe... thirty-two, thirty-five years old, give or take. (He's always been more of a liberal arts major than mathematics.) By all appearances, he's probably a little old to still be playing this kind of game, but what can he say? He's fresh from rising from the dead and he wants to feel alive. Death is a presence in the back of his head, too close for comfort. He'd rather have a man breathing heavy above him than Death breathing over his shoulder, lurking.

Peter isn't all that surprised that he gets a reputation for being _good_. It's basically what he was striving for — men, flocking to his side, offering whatever they could just for a chance at his mouth. He lets them buy him drinks. (It's not like he'd get drunk, after all.) But what he's really looking for tonight is a challenge — someone who thinks they have power so that he can strip them of that delusion.

It's not quite the same scene that it was back when he was a teenager. He's not the fresh faced boy that men would approach because they saw someone they thought was lanky enough to use for a night. He's one of the predators now, and it's obvious with his hair slicked back loosely and his facial hair trimmed into something tidy. The men he fends off tonight are more boys than not, approaching so cautiously that Peter doesn't know why they bother. He's not looking for someone easy.

The man Peter finds is younger — perhaps in his twenties. He's built and proportionally arrogant, and Peter likes him from the moment he steps near him because the guy says, "Let me guess. You want me to suck your cock in the bathroom stall. Get in line and back the fuck off." 

Peter is more than happy to tell him otherwise, to lean in a whisper a line of descriptive filth while he sets his fingertips at the man's waist. When Peter leans back to take a swig of beer, he probably looks smug. The look he's getting now makes him feel special, truly. It's like this guy's never met an older man who wanted a cock in his mouth before. He's looking at Peter's mouth like it's a revelation.

He has the guy nearly panting for it when he hears a familiar voice sneer, "What the hell are you doing?" with enough volume that it cuts through the club music with ease.

Stiles — he looks distinctly unimpressed when Peter sighs and turns toward him. The expression is a flat mask of aggression under all the bruises on his face. It's a good look for him, Peter thinks, but it's a miracle he got into the club at all, looking like he was fresh from a beating. Maybe the bouncer had felt sorry for him. 

Stiles crosses his arms, all of his attention on Peter. "I asked you a question."

"Hey, kid—" says Peter's would-be sex partner. (He's sure that he said his name at one point, but Peter couldn't be bothered to recall it just now. Maybe it's Travis... Trevor... Whatever. It's not like Peter would be calling out anyone's name tonight.) "Get out of here, alright? This isn't your scene."

Peter likes the fire that pops up in Stiles' eyes when his gaze shifts over to Travis-or-Trevor. Stiles had merely been suspicious before, but the sheer annoyance that Stiles is feeling makes his lips peel back from his teeth in a sharp smile. "When is it _ever_ my scene," he says. "Don't 'kid' me, okay? I've had a rough night as it is, and I want to know when this asshole crawled out of whatever grave he came from."

Trevor-or-Travis gives up with an exasperated rise of his hands and slips away, muttering about how he's not desperate enough for a blow job to put up with pissy kids. Peter watches him go with only mild disappointment. He'd been too easy of a mark anyway, and now there's someone much more difficult already settling into his vacated seat. Peter tips his beer back as he looks at Stiles. He wonders what he'd look like when he's begging to come in Peter's mouth. He could find out, if he wanted.

"You're a terrible wingman," Peter says, leaning against the bar. He rests his beer on the paper coaster and subtly scoots it toward Stiles. There's no way the bartender is going to serve Stiles alcohol anyway, no matter what fake ID he tries to wave around.

"Oh, I'm sorry," says Stiles with exaggerated grief. He picks up Peter's beer and tips a mouthful back with a grimace. It probably tastes terrible to his inexperienced tongue — because, let's be honest, the beer tastes terrible to Peter too — but Stiles sucks off the traces that get left behind on his bottom lip anyway. "I didn't realize that I was here to help you prey on the innocent youth of Beacon Hills."

Peter skims the back of one finger against Stiles' bare arm. He'd only seen Stiles a handful of times before his death, and even then, he'd been far more preoccupied with Scott. He doesn't remember ever seeing Stiles so exposed, so much of his skin showing under the short sleeves of a shirt that's too thin and too loose. 

"If I wanted the innocent, I'd have sought you out instead," Peter says, safe in his own assumptions. Stiles has only ever smelled like himself. Untouched.

The way Stiles laughs at that is bitter — this side of angry. "Not for lack of trying," he mutters. 

Maybe if Peter were human, the words would have gone unheard. They make Peter smile, though, imagining Stiles ineptly pursuing anyone who stood near him for more than five minutes. Young and desperate and utterly begging to be ruined. 

Stiles sees the look and glances down at the finger Peter's sliding up and down his arm. He laughs again. "Oh, no. I don't think so."

"Your loss," Peter tells him, bracing his arm along the bar so that he can lean in to whisper in Stiles' ear, "but I think the two of us could come to a very beneficial arrangement." 

He's aware of how they're positioned. Stiles is facing the crowd, the sprawling length of his body on display in a way that seems entirely unintentional. With Stiles' back to the bar, he could run whenever he wanted, if he ever started to think Peter was more than he could handle. 

"Tell me you've never been curious," Peter says, "about what it would be like to have your cock in my mouth."

Stiles flinches like the words burn, but he doesn't run. He drinks more of Peter's beer — as if that would help. Peter can feel how warm Stiles is getting, even if the dim club lighting makes it hard to see. He almost wishes that they were somewhere else, so he'd be able to hear if he was making Stiles' heart pound faster with his words, but part of the thrill in hunting in clubs is how it limits his senses.

"Have you ever felt that before, Stiles?" he asks with a gentle purr to his words. "It's not like your own hand, even in the shower. It's _hot_."

His teeth clip on the end of his words. It makes him think about how he should have just bitten Stiles when he had the chance. He can't turn Stiles into a werewolf anymore, can't get into his head the way he did Scott, once upon a time, but he can sink his teeth into Stiles in other ways. Stiles shrugs hard, leaning away to put Peter's beer on a coaster on his other side. He was blushing, Peter is pretty sure, when he turned his back, but when Stiles looks at him again, the only thing that's darkening his face are the bruises. 

"I know what a blow job is, genius," he says, sounding strained around the words. He's probably not used to them. "I might be the only virgin in this whole building, but I'm not an idiot. The only one who sounds desperate here is you."

Stiles probably intends his words to be offensive enough to throw Peter off his game, maybe enough for him to back off. It's only because he doesn't know what he's missing, yet. So Peter puts his hand on Stiles' thigh and scratches his nails along the inseam of his jeans. The reverberation makes Stiles' shiver.

Peter says, "Would it appeal to you if I was desperate for it?"

Stiles' breath hitches, and Peter draws circles on the inside of his thigh with one finger, over and over and over before Stiles' tongue darts out to wet his lips. "Fine," Stiles snaps, turning to look at Peter so sharply that Peter wants to dig his claws into him. "Let's do this. Where do you want to go?"

There's a handful of places that Peter thinks of taking Stiles — all close enough that he can get them there without Stiles changing his mind, but Peter wants someplace that Stiles will be relaxed in. Too stressed out or too distracted, and Stiles wouldn't be able to focus on Peter the way he should, but his options are pretty limited. It's not like Peter intends on taking Stiles home. He leads Stiles out to the parking lot. His car is on the very edge of it, lit faintly by one of the street lights. Stiles is already looking panicked by the time Peter presses him against it.

"Maybe this isn't such a good idea," he says, looking around hastily like he expects there to be a crowd of people trampling out of the shadows at any second. He jumps back when Peter sinks to his knees, but doesn't go far with the car right behind him. Peter brackets him in with his arms anyway, just in case. Stiles shoves him back with a palm to Peter's forehead. "Seriously? This is a parking lot!"

"Oh, please," Peter drawls with a roll of his eyes as he reaches for Stiles' jeans. "There's hardly anyone around. No one's going to hear you moaning, and in a second, you won't care if they do."

Getting Stiles' cock in his mouth is more of a relief than Peter will ever tell anyone. There's nothing special about it, to be honest. It's neither monstrously huge nor one of the rarer uncut cocks. It's average in almost every way, but having it push across his tongue and swell to full hardness while Peter is getting it wet is like finding a familiar friend. It drops him into an easy mindset, one that's methodical and warm.

Stiles curses softly, hips jerking before he can help himself, and Peter backs off, ducking in only to mouth at the exposed curve of Stiles' hip. He grabs the bunched waist of Stiles' jeans and yanks them down a few more inches to expose the soft curves of his ass. He grabs both cheeks in his hands and squeezes, holding Stiles firmly when he swallows him down to the root again. Stiles hisses, fisting a hand in Peter's hair. Peter sucks harder. He wants to hear a moan before he's done.

"Peter...," Stiles whispers, carding his fingers through Peter's hair. Every now and then, his fingers pause, twitching and clenching. When Peter looks up at him, Stiles is staring at him, eyes glassy with arousal. His mouth is open and red, lower lip already bitten and swollen from trying to hold back. "You like doing this, don't you?"

Peter doesn't answer him, but he does take Stiles into his mouth deep enough to feel the tip of it pushing at the back of his mouth. Peter has to take a deep breath through his nose. He hasn't deep throated anyone in years. He's out of practice, but Stiles is right after all — he does enjoy this. He enjoys making men react in exactly the way Stiles is now: thighs shaking, fingers curling tightly in his hair...

Giving head is easy when you get down to it. Peter's got a pattern. He hasn't used it in a while, so he has to work back up to it, but it's simple. He gets Stiles wet with his tongue, mouthing at the underside of his cock until he's basically leaking against his own belly, thin pearls of precome pushing out with every heartbeat. Stiles' grip in his hair, his noises, his stuttering hips — they all give away the little places that Peter finds. The places he'll concentrate on later.

He gasps Peter's name, shivering when Peter puts a hand over his belly to help him stay upright. He clutches at Peter's hand, their fingers lacing together, and thrashes when he feels Peter's throat soften and then give way around the head of his cock. It's enough of a movement that Stiles nearly slips out of his mouth, but Peter blindly chases it back. When he takes Stiles this time, there's no hesitation. He doesn't go slow, and Stiles moans, tipping his head back against the car.

Peter hums despite himself at the sound of Stiles' voice. Under his hand, he can feel Stiles surrendering — the way he rolls easily into his thrusts as he moves in and out of Peter's mouth. He enjoys how it makes Stiles choke on his next breath and how Stiles sounds raw when he says, "I'm gonna come. Peter—"

But if Stiles expects Peter to pull back, that's not what he's going to get.

"You can't be serious," Stiles groans.

One of his legs hitches up like he's trying to spread his legs — and isn't that an interesting reaction? Maybe Peter will do this again another time, when he can get Stiles completely naked, see him respond to Peter's mouth when he isn't restrained by his own clothing. Peter wonders if Stiles will ever let him get this close again. Maybe, he thinks. No matter how terribly he thinks of Peter, he'll want to feel this again.

Peter pulls back for a moment — to hear Stiles wail in greedy disappointment, but also to purse his lips against the head of his dick, to get the first blurt of come over the front of his mouth and the tip of his tongue. It's sweet at first, but as Peter swallows him down again, the rest spills out in the more familiar salty flavor. Stiles jolts with each pulse like it's being pulled out of him, shaking as he watches Peter push white smears down his length with his mouth.

Stiles pries his fingers away from Peter's hand. Peter hadn't even realized how tightly Stiles had been holding on to him, but Stiles stretches his fingers loose again before reaching to push Peter's hair back from his face, to gather all the long strands back and hold them away so that he can watch.

He grunts when Peter sucks at him gently. "You trying to get me hard again?" he asks in an admiring sort of tone. "I'm young, but I don't think I could get it up again that fast."

But Stiles is still hard, slow to soften even though he's just come, and Peter sighs, opening his mouth wide to take Stiles in loosely. He drags his lips up, cleaning him up, sucking away what bits of come he finds, no matter how much Stiles hisses or shivers with oversensitivity. He follows his mouth with his hand, intent on milking the remaining drops of come that didn't quite manage to make it out. At the very tip, Peter licks the last of it up with the tip of his tongue.

Stiles gasps, but lets him do as he likes. He makes a soft sound when he sees Peter swallow, and he's still staring at Peter's mouth when Peter gets to his feet and helps Stiles tucks his cock back into his pants. It's very gratifying, to be honest. Stiles might not have any experience to know any better, but Peter knows that he'll always consider this moment as one of the best.

What Peter doesn't expect is for Stiles to touch his cheek, or for him to rub his thumb across Peter's lower lip. Stiles' brow wrinkles a little, and he licks his lips.

Stiles clears his throat. "You... you really seem to like doing that," he says, thumb pushing at Peter's mouth like he's testing its give.

"I do," Peter says, licking at the tip of Stiles' thumb. Stiles' breath catches.

Stiles' gaze is a bit distant. He barely seems to notice Peter zipping up the front of his jeans and buttoning them. As for Peter, he's busy making sure Stiles is dressed — too busy to realize Stiles is pushing off the side of the car, let alone pushing into Peter's space, mouth angled just so to close over Peter's lower lip and suck. Stiles kisses like he's searching for something with his tongue, with his teeth, and he sighs when he finds it, whatever it was. Perhaps the taste of his come. His moan, this time, is softer. It's more... Peter doesn't want to say honest because that would imply that the moans from earlier were a lie. But Stiles had been mildly embarrassed by them. This softer one, Stiles doesn't seem to realize he even made it.

"Sorry," Stiles whispers, blinking back to himself with an abrupt blush. "I just... I've always wanted to um. See what that was like. Tasting myself in someone else's mouth."

Peter smiles. "Are there other things you've always wanted to do?"

Stiles laughs, glancing away shyly, but his fingers are rubbing at his mouth. "Sure, I guess," he admits thoughtfully. "I mean, virgin and all — well... you know what I mean. I've got lots of things I want to try."

Peter scratches at the corner of his mouth, flicks away the flakes of come that come off. "It's summer soon, isn't it? Make a list. Find me."

Peter meets Stiles' curious gaze when he looks back, uncertain if Peter's being genuine. He doesn't assure Stiles about anything further, but he does tuck his hands into his pockets. Stiles' gaze drops at the movement, and his eyes go a little wide because he's probably just now realizing that Peter's still hard. Now that they're outside of the club, Peter can hear the way Stiles' heartbeat ticks upward. He can smell the way his scent shifts from satisfied, back to aroused.

"I'll see you around, Stiles," Peter says pointedly and Stiles falls back a couple steps automatically. "Remember to make that list."

"Okay," Stiles says, nodding as he blindly finds the end of Peter's car and ducks behind it. He lifts his hand to wave. "Yeah, I'll... Bye!"

Peter watches him go, watches him run halfway across the parking lot to his blue Jeep — looking far worse for the wear. It'd be a shame if Stiles never got to christen his first car, he thinks, smiling.

Next time.


End file.
